The Bookseller's Welcome
by FoggyKnight
Summary: After three long years, Mrs. Hudson hears a knock on her door that she's been waiting for. Set a few hours before EMPT. Additional chapter added due to request! Rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Greetings everyone! This is my first attempt at a fanfic story. I had this idea while I was reading at Nunewesen's Coming Home story. This story is set right before EMPT begins. I hope the title choice is clear after you read this._

_I do not own any of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's characters, ideas, or settings thereof. _

**The Bookseller's Return**

Mrs. Hudson looked up from her baking and glanced out her kitchen window. The London street was as busy as usual for a London spring morning. Hansoms rattled past and the call of the newsboy rang out in the bustle. Inside however, it was quiet.

Over the last few years, Mrs. Hudson had caught herself listening for the sounds of footsteps in the rooms above, almost going so far as insomnia some nights. When the doctor had left after his marriage to that lovely girl Mary, the rooms above had gotten quieter, but by no means silent. She had continued to hear the footsteps of Mr. Holmes on the stairs at all hours; until the day came that he did not come home.

There was no question of going to his funeral. Over the years, she had become very fond of her two tenants. After her husband died, she had not expected to go to anymore of such services. But after years of helping Dr. Watson patch Mr. Holmes up after late-night scuffles with the more menacing members of the London population, she had known, sooner or later, that his work would catch up to him someday.

She was still unprepared for it.

The day of Mr. Holmes' funeral was spent with Dr. Watson, Mr. Mycroft Holmes, and the members of Scotland Yard that could get away from duty. Chief among them was the Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson, their petty squabbles set aside for the day with a common agreement: to honor Mr. Sherlock Holmes as if he was one of their own. After the ceremony, she had invited the doctor back to 221B Baker Street for a cup of tea and a comforting shoulder, and the two of them had reminisced for hours, alternately laughing and crying, until finally it was after midnight and Dr. Watson had to go home. She watched from the now silent hall as he walked down the street, she noticing that his formerly erect and soldierly bearing was now slumped and drawn downward from grief.

That was three years ago, and she still missed Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson occasionally stopped by to say hello, but it did not feel the same, both feeling an empty space where another man should be. She still kept his sitting room neat and tidy, though she would have done that even if Mr. Mycroft Holmes had not been paying her to do so. When she dusted, she could still smell a faint aroma of tobacco smoke and noxious chemical fumes. Every once in a while, as she was cleaning, she fancied she heard the stairs creak, and she would freeze, listening intently, until she shook her head and dismissed her thoughts with a wave of sadness and resignation.

She had busied herself for the last three years with baking and volunteering for a couple of charities to fill up her time, now that her rooms did not need a daily cleaning due to chemical stains and broken teapots. As her two tenants were gone, and Mr. Mycroft Holmes's wishes prevented her from seeking new tenants, she tried to make a connection to other people in need of a hot filling meal and a smile.

A muffled thump of the rolling pin on the table brought her back to the present and she mentally shook herself for woolgathering as she put her baking in the oven. As she straightened up, she heard the door bell chime, its clear ring loud in the silence. Dusting floury hands on her apron, she untied the bow, and placed the apron on the back of her chair. She left her kitchen for the foyer, smoothing her hair with one hand, and smoothing her dress with the other.

Opening the door, she saw a short, wizened man with ragged brown clothes. His wispy white hair and beard, rheumy blue eyes, and a crooked nose were half hidden by a tattered, wide-brimmed brown hat. He carried a small back on his bent back, as equally weathered as the rest of him.

"Good morning ma'am. I was wondering if a fine woman like yourself would have any interest in some old books? I can see you are a woman with good taste. Perhaps you would be interested in my books on the wonders of Egypt?"

"Thank you, but I am not interested. Good day." Mrs. Hudson said firmly. She moved to close the door, looking down at the doorknob as the old man still had his grimy hand on it and was preventing her from closing it.

"Here now, Mrs. Hudson", rang a familiar, warm voice suddenly. "Is this any way to welcome back your tenant?"

Mrs. Hudson's head flew up, her mouth open in an "o" as she stared into a familiar face.

_A/N: Alright, I'm on the other end this time :D. Please review if you can! If you can't, thanks for reading!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks to Velvet Green for noticing the missing conversation about the wax bust. The oversight has now been adjusted. Thanks for all of your reviews, +alerts, +favorites, it means a lot to know you guys love to read this! _

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock Holmes smiled down at her.

Mrs. Hudson suddenly could not breathe. Her heart seemed to shudder to a halt, only to stutter back to life as he moved a step closer. A stumbled step backward, and she sat down with a thump on the stairs, her legs feeling shaky.

"Wha...how...?" Her voice sounded faint. She swallowed hard and tried again. "Mr...Holmes?" she whispered, afraid that if she spoke too loud, this hallucination would disappear if she spoke louder. His face suddenly wavered, and she blinked, finding tears spilling down her face. When her vision cleared and he was still there, she realized that this was not a dream.

Sherlock nodded, but there was a look of wary concern on his face now. Apparently he realized what he had just done to the older woman.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" She cried. "You're alive!" Then she felt a powerful urge to scold him for scaring her. He must have seen this in her face, because he stepped back warily. As she continued to look at him, and saw how exhausted and wan he looked, all of it faded away, leaving wonder and joy again at his return to the land of the living.

Moving forward quickly so that he could not back away, she threw her arms around him in a tight hug. He stiffened slightly, unused to this unusual swing of emotion from her, then relaxed and held her in return, uncaring that his coat was rapidly getting damp.

"Welcome home, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm glad to be back", said Mr. Holmes quietly. She pulled back and looked up just in time to see him glance up and behind her, at the stairs that led to his rooms, and knew that he was thinking of the man that had shared that 'home' with him. She let go of him and patted his arm, using her motherly attitude to distract him.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, you're all skin and bones! Come in, I was just baking!" She quickly wiped her face with a handkerchief as she ushered him into her kitchen. A broad smile lit up her face for the first time in many months as she pushed him in ahead of her. She bustled around the kitchen, cutting up slices of bread, and putting the kettle on to boil as he pulled himself up to the table. Setting the food before him, she poured strong tea for the two of them and sat across from him. The rest of the hour, she spent interrogating Mr. Holmes. He answered her questions as he wolfed down the food. He also informed her of his plan to lure out Colonel Moran, showing her the wax bust concealed in his book bag. Unfortunately, she had to let Mr. Holmes know about Dr. Watson's Mary, and it is then that the cheerful mood died. In a subdued manner, he mentioned that he had heard, and asked to see his rooms.

As he went upstairs to examine his rooms, she followed him up, ostensibly to light the fire. As he picked up his pipe, caressing its familiar handle, she spoke up quietly behind him, asking the question that had been pressing on her mind for the last hour.

"Does Dr. Watson know? About you?"

Mr. Holmes went still. Turning to look at her, his eyes looked haunted and sad.

"No, he does not. Not yet." Placing his pipe down, he leaned against the mantle, staring into the fire for a few minutes. Then he shook his head and squared his shoulders.

As he turned back to her, Mrs. Hudson noted that his eyes twinkled with suppressed merriment, a decision clearly made.

In a cheerful voice, Mr. Holmes added, "But he will soon!" Pushing past her, Mr. Holmes thundered down the stairs, snatching his sack of books and his hat. "Wish me luck!" He adjusted his disguise and made his departure, once more the elderly bookseller.

"Good luck, Mr. Holmes." Mrs. Hudson whispered after him. She only hoped that Mr. Holmes would have the sense not to reveal himself in quite the dramatic way that he did with her. Shaking her head in amusement, she amended that last thought, merely praying that he did not send the good doctor into an early grave himself from the shock.

A turn took her to the stairs, and she ascended to go air out the doctor's room.

_A/N: Reviews are always appreciated! I will do my best to get back to you quickly. _


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